


true gentleman

by lostnfound14



Category: Knives Out (2019)
Genre: F/M, first time writing in this fandom, friends to lovers sORTa, hope yall enjoy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:35:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22056394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lostnfound14/pseuds/lostnfound14
Summary: As Marta sits on one of the couches in the living room, she subconsciously reaches into her pocket and pulls out Benoit’s business card. Her thumb runs over the grooves of the numbers on the bottom, and she remembers the warmth of his hand as he pressed the card into her palm.Before she knows it, she’s walking quickly over to the phone, an old rotary one.Marta starts to twist the dial, putting in each digit of Benoit’s number with painstaking care. After she puts in the last number, she waits anxiously as the phone starts to ring.After two, she hears a click. Her throat goes dry.“Hello?”-Or, Marta feels lonely and invites someone over in hopes of feeling normal again.
Relationships: Benoit Blanc/Marta Cabrera
Comments: 37
Kudos: 242





	true gentleman

**Author's Note:**

> as said in the tags, this is my first time writing for this fandom and this ship. I watched the movie about a week ago and instantly fell in love with it, and by proxy, the ships it offered. I understand that Marta/Ransom is the more popular ship, and I love the fics I've read that depict that relationship, but I also wanted to do these two some justice. This is somewhat inspired by "Maybe We Deserve Each Other" by auroreanrave in terms of the last scene, I think. That one depicted a post-canon telling of their story very nicely. So here's me, riding that wave. I hope you guys enjoy.

On the steps of a courthouse stand Benoit Blanc and Marta Cabrera, huddled under his umbrella as a drizzle falls in Boston. Hugh Ransom Drysdale has been convicted of the murder of Fran, arson, and the attempted murder of Miss Cabrera. Sometimes, when she blinks, she can still see Ransom hovering over her, his striking features caught in a frown as he realizes the murder weapon is nothing but a prop.

“There’s my cab,” Marta says as a black car rolls up in front of them. She starts down the steps and Benoit follows her, continuing to shield her from the rain with his umbrella, even as he gets a little wet himself.

Marta reaches for the door but before her fingers wrap around the handle, she pauses. Then she turns to look at Detective Blanc. His eyebrows, constantly furrowed, soften slightly, which makes her feel… odd. 

“Thank you for everything, Mr. Blanc,” she says.

A corner of Blanc’s mouth tugs upward. “It was my pleasure, Miss Cabrera. And please, call me Benoit.” His Southern drawl floats into her ears and makes her feel more at peace than she has in the last few days, what with the tension of the trial and the dirty looks she got from Walt and Linda.

“Then I’m Marta to you,” she insists. “I hope we can keep in touch.”

Benoit almost looks surprised. “Of course. You can call me anytime at…” He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a business card, offering it to her. As she takes it, he points to the ten digits at the bottom, “This number.”

Marta looks up from the card and smiles softly at him, which he returns. “I think your driver is getting impatient,” he observes, not breaking eye contact with her. The feeling of his eyes on hers makes her stomach drop slightly.

“Of course,” she concedes, smiling bashfully. “I’ll call you,” she promises, as she swings the door open and dips into the car. He closes it for her and as the driver starts to pull off, she sees him wave with his free hand, the other gripping the umbrella lazily and resting it on his shoulder.

The mansion, while beautiful, feels incredibly empty to Marta without Harlan’s presence, especially at night. There are the dogs, and her mother and sister, but she feels like a stranger. Sometimes she pushes the door to the study open, expecting to see Harlan sitting at his desk, hard at work on another novel, but is met with the sight of an empty chair and a lingering smell of blood as if to taunt her.

Being Harlan’s caregiver, Marta liked to stay in everyone’s good graces, never one to stand up for herself and antagonize a Thrombey. They had even started to refer to her as “part of the family,” which almost felt real until they started calling her a bitch and a whore after they discovered that Harlan left them nothing.

So it was all a lie. And while she knows she has people who love her, it hurts to think that to the Thrombeys, Marta Cabrera was nothing more than a package deal with their father.

As Marta sits on one of the couches in the living room, she subconsciously reaches into her pocket and pulls out Benoit’s business card. Her thumb runs over the grooves of the numbers on the bottom, and she remembers the warmth of his hand as he pressed the card into her palm.

Before she knows it, she’s walking quickly over to the phone, an old rotary one. She smiles fondly as she remembers Harlan’s disgust when Linda insisted on getting him one of the “newfangled landlines.” 

Marta starts to twist the dial, putting in each digit of Benoit’s number with painstaking care. After she puts in the last number, she waits anxiously as the phone starts to ring. 

After two, she hears a click. Her throat goes dry. 

“Hello?” At the sound of his voice in her ear, she calms slightly. She licks her lips nervously before announcing herself.

“Benoit? It’s Marta. Marta Ca–”

“There’s only one Marta with whom I happen to have the pleasure of being acquainted,” he interrupts warmly. “I’m glad to hear from you, Marta. How are you?”

She smiles and lets out a shaky breath. It feels nice to hear his soothing voice. She imagines momentarily what it would be like if he did an audiobook, his drawl taking its time with every word and making them sound beautiful.

“Marta?”

Her cheeks redden in embarrassment. She’d been too caught up in her own thoughts. “Yes! Sorry. I’m…” She considers lying because he’s just making small talk and doesn’t want to bother him, but she doesn’t think it’s worth the nasty taste of bile in her mouth as she continues carrying this conversation.

“I’m having a difficult time,” she admits.

Instantly, Benoit’s voice adopts a concerned tone. “Are the Thrombeys still harassing you?”

Marta chuckles nervously. He shouldn’t care so much, and yet, months after the craziness of the case, it’s like they’d just seen each other yesterday. “Well, yes,” she concedes, “but that’s not the reason I called you.”

“Then why, Marta? I must know.”

She exhales to settle her nerves. “The house feels too big for just me and my family.” There it is. The truth that she hadn’t yet been able to put into words, but Benoit’s calm, patient attitude must have helped her get it out.

“I don’t want to assume, but are you asking–”

“Yes,” she interrupts. “I’m wondering if you can find it in your schedule to visit m– us some time.” She doesn’t know why she cut herself off. 

“Of course,” he says, sounding gently surprised. “I can come this weekend if that isn’t too soon.”

“Okay,” Marta confirms because something akin to excitement flares up within her chest at his acceptance. “I’ll see you then, Benoit.”

“Until then, Marta.”

Marta carefully sets the phone onto the base after that, smiling despite herself. Benoit is coming. The one man who didn’t dismiss her for her position or the color of her skin.

For the first time since before Harlan’s death, Marta feels happy.

“Mamá, Mr. Blanc is coming today,” Marta says over the eggs her mother prepared for her that morning. 

“The private investigator?” The older woman asks, pouring herself a cup of coffee from their – Harlan’s rather expensive coffee maker. Marta nods. 

“How do we know he’s not a weirdo?” Alice asks, settling into the chair across from Marta’s at the kitchen table.

_ “Alice," _ her mother warns.

“What? Isn’t it a fair question? We’ve never met the guy,” Alice defends, beginning to tuck into her eggs.

Marta frowns. “He’s not a  _ weirdo.  _ He’s a very honest, nice man. I invited him up here.”

Her sister notices the look in her eyes and relents. Marta exhales and sips her coffee. She doesn’t know why she feels the urge to defend him in front of her family. She’s sure he’ll be able to prove his honorable character to them himself.

After her mother insists she’s fine to do the dishes, Marta busies herself by tucking into one of Harlan’s books. He left so many of them lying around that she can dabble in whatever she pleases. It’s like with every word she reads off the page she’s absorbing a memory of Harlan himself. It makes her feel a little bit less lonely. 

She doesn’t know how much time she spends reading, but it must be a while because, in the middle of a chapter, she hears the telltale running of a car’s motor.

Marta rockets up from her armchair, gently laying the book down in her seat and walking quickly to the door. A black car sits idling in the distance, and she leans against one of the supporting beams of the porch, watching a man sidle out of the car and stand to his full height. His short hair and full-rimmed glasses confirm his identity. Benoit.

He leans through the passenger-side window and says something to the driver. When he stands again, the car starts to pull off, and Benoit begins striding confidently, relaxed, across the grass of the lawn. When he gets closer, Marta notices a bright smile on his face, one she ends up mirroring. Finally, he climbs the steps of the porch and stands a respectful distance away. She almost rolls her eyes.

She takes a step toward him and wraps her arms around his neck, almost having to rise to her tiptoes to do so. “I’m so glad you could come, Benoit,” she says, her head tilted up to rest on his shoulder.

His hands land on her back and he responds, “It was my pleasure.”

She pushes herself gently off of him and gestures for him to follow her inside. When she’s enveloped in the warmth of the house again, she turns to see Benoit sweeping the foyer with his eyes, a familiar, inquisitive expression settled in his features. Possibly, he expected it to change with her moving into Harlan’s house, but she can’t bring herself to change anything. Such inaction might preserve his memory for that little bit longer.

After he completes his sweep, he speaks. “So how are things going?”

Marta shrugs. “They’re going.” Then, realizing that’s an inadequate answer, she adds, “I suppose I’m making do. I found someone to run the publishing company and I’m working on getting my mother’s citizenship.” 

Benoit’s brilliant white teeth show in a smile. “That’s wonderful, Marta.”

She can’t help it; his smile is infectious, and she matches it. “It feels good to be doing something,” she admits. “But… once in a while, I’ll get a call, or an email, from Walt or Linda and it’ll mess up my rhythm.”

His expressive eyebrows tilt downward and his eyes, they search the inner workings of her mind. God, his eyes.

“I know it’s your decision, but I wouldn’t let that bother you too much,” he says. “They never deserved you. You were far too good for those cold-hearted people.”

Her face feels hot, and her lip quivers as she amends, “Except for Harlan.” A burning sensation takes hold beneath her eyes. Not now.  _ Not in front of him. _

“Except for Harlan,” Benoit repeats. She looks up at him through her eyelashes, and his expression softens. His arms open slowly and he whispers, “Oh, c’mere.”

Without hesitation, she falls into his embrace, allowing the first tears to fall. Well. She’s officially crying on one of Benoit Blanc’s expensive suits. He seems to take no issue with it, though, as he gently strokes her hair with one hand and holds her close with the other.  _ This is nice. _

Words spill out of her mouth before she can halt the flow. “He was a smart man,” she says, tears continuing to fall and soak into Benoit’s jacket. “But so impulsive. God, I can’t believe he left me with all of,” she gestures loosely to the house that surrounds them, “this.”

“His decision might have seemed unexpected to you,” Benoit says, and the rumbling of his chest as he speaks reminds her of the waves of an ocean, “but nobody else deserved that money. And I know you’ll figure something out. You’re a damn smart woman if your help during the case was any indication.”

Her face warms at his words and she pulls away from him, looking into his eyes as she wipes her tears from her face. “I was just following you around,” she protests, albeit weakly. 

Benoit scoffs. “‘Hugh did this?’ Give yourself some credit for once, Marta,” he insists. Nobody really gave her the credit she deserved, she supposes, when she was still caring for Harlan and facing the awfulness of his family. The only comfort she had in that house was Harlan himself. And, well, he’s gone now.

“That’s – that’s nothing,” she refuses. She sees Benoit roll his eyes, and her face heats up again. He’s having none of her polite denials, and it frustrates her slightly, but at the same time makes her stomach feel funny. In a good way. In a butterflies-fluttering-around way.

“Come on now, Marta,” he says, sounding exasperated. “You need to stop being so humble. I thought a few million dollars might have helped effect that change.” As he says the last sentence, his face morphs into a smile, a pleading yet humorous one. Meanwhile, she can’t help but frown, her eyes starting to burn again.

“Why are you saying these things, Benoit?” She finally asks, helplessly. “Why are you being so… so good to me?” 

Now his smile falls and his hand rises to cup her face. She leans slightly into his touch without realizing, and his thumb strokes her cheek absently. “Because I’m telling nothing but the truth.”

Marta lifts her hand to cover his, and they look into each other’s eyes, a confusing mix of emotions clouding her thoughts. Gratitude. Admiration. Bashfulness.

Benoit’s hand falls from her face, lands at his side, and she loses her grip on it. She misses the warmth of his touch.

“Well,” he starts, his tone sounding too dismissive. “I suppose–”

Marta stands up on her toes and kisses him. She wants to laugh at the way his eyes widened when she drew closer, but instead, she focuses on the now, on his pliable lips, resting her hands on the back of his neck for leverage. He does little to reciprocate, offering a hesitant hand on her waist, but at the very least, he kisses back, offering polite pressure against her lips that makes the blood rush to her head.

When Marta’s calves start to ache, she settles once again on her feet but her eyes never leave his. He still looks decently surprised. 

“You are a good man,” she hears herself say. “You stood with me when everyone else wanted my head. Thank you.”

He takes a moment to respond, his breath slowing, until his tone is even, at least similar to his normal, steady voice. “It was the right thing to do.” 

Marta reaches for his hand, and he takes hers without looking down between them. “You were the one person in that house that ever did the right thing,” she says, finding a new fire in her eyes.

They look into each other’s eyes for a moment, in their own private silence, until it is broken by a voice: “Marta?”

Her mother and sister stand in the doorway, mouths slightly agape. 

_ Never too late for an introduction. _

**Author's Note:**

> I hope everyone enjoyed this! I struggled with a few ideas for this fic but this is the one that flowed the best. I considered a perspective change to Benoit's POV for the second half of this fic but decided against it. Thank you to everyone for reading! Leave kudos if you enjoyed and possibly a comment to tell me what you thought? I thrive off of those. Again, thank you.


End file.
